


The Gifts of the Magicians

by primeideal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Community: mini_fest, Death Eaters, Gen, Humor, Season of Christmas, Twelve Days Of Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over twelve days of Christmas, Walden is surprisingly well-read, Snape is sly, Pettigrew is hungry, Bellatrix is lovesick, Rodolphus is jealous, and Voldemort is unimpressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gifts of the Magicians

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to nnozomi for betaing!

On Christmas Day, Voldemort dropped by Malfoy Manor. It wasn't meant to be a long visit. Just to remind his followers there that he could be expected, any hour of any day of the year.  
  
He was not wholly surprised to find a fruit tree in bloom on their front lawn. Though it was December, magic could hasten or prolong the days of ripeness, and the Malfoys were the sort to show off in festive style.  
  
He was, however, not expecting to find a bird in the top of the tree, clinging to a thin branch and nervously rocking back and forth.  
  
"Do you care to explain the meaning of this?" he asked Narcissa Malfoy, once she had emerged in her dress robes.  
  
"I was...making sure we had food to share at Bellatrix' gala," she stammered.  
  
"What  _kind_  of food?"  
  
"Fruit. My lord. Whose source we can trust, not something I imported like a common Muggle."  
  
"So. You merely charmed the tree so it would flower out of season."  
  
"Yes. Nothing innovative."  
  
"And the pheasant?"  
  
"Peacock, actually," she said quickly, "it got startled and flew up in the tree."  
  
"Do not make me waste Legilimency on you or your pets. That is not a peacock, and even had it been,  _peacocks do not fly._ "  
  
"This one did."  
  
Voldemort glared.  
  
"...probably a consequence of all the residual magic in the air."  
  
"Was it that difficult to charm a tree?"  
  
"There's a natural cycle to things, it's difficult to disturb..."  
  
"Much as it is also difficult to make peacocks  _not peacocks_?"  
  
"Well, you see, once it got into the tree it wasn't coming down. I was afraid the tree would collapse under its weight. So I just transfigured it into a smaller bird."  
  
Voldemort stared at the tree, then slowly took out his wand. " _Finite incantatem!_ "  
  
The pears shriveled, blackened, and fell to the snow. At the same time, the partridge turned back into a peacock, hovered there a moment, then fell from the tree, fainting dead away.  
  
"Next time," said Voldemort, "do not begin drinking egg nog until your gala."  
  
On Boxing Day, Macnair presented Voldemort with two turtledoves.  
  
"What are these for?"  
  
"For defeating the Order of the Phoenix," Macnair bowed.  
  
"How have you enchanted them?"  
  
"I have not, my lord. I have bred them."  
  
"And what use will that do?"  
  
"We will defeat the Order of the Phoenix by seducing the phoenix."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Their spirits will be broken when their mascot defects to us. Phoenixes are...physically desirous of turtledoves."  
  
"Where did you learn that?"  
  
"Shakespeare."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Famous, er...wizard posing as a Muggle. Wrote about magic. Three witches and all that."  
  
"Since when have you been reading the scribblings of a lunatic? Pretends to be a Muggle, indeed..."  
  
"Since I finished the collected works of Thoreau."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
"Besides, phoenixes are supposed to be immortal, I thought."  
  
"Of course they are, sir."  
  
"They don't need to reproduce."  
  
"Not to propagate the species, my lord. No."  
  
"Why would they waste their time on turtledoves?"  
  
"Because...they might...fall in love, sir?"  
  
"What a ridiculous plot. Get your beasts out of my sight."  
  
On the third day of Christmas, Yaxley showed off his hens, newly arrived from France.  
  
"We have sympathizers in the Ministry there," he explained. "Not many, and not in relevant jobs. But enough to introduce us to their senior officials."  
  
Voldemort nodded. "Let us not spread ourselves too thin. There will be time enough soon to deal with the wider world."  
  
"What of the enemy? Is it true they have connections in France as well?"  
  
Snape gave a small laugh. "Dumbledore's idea of a French ally is the overgrown Headmistress of Beauxbatons. Unless you count delaying the international publication of  _Transfiguration Today_  as an achievement of the enemy, we have nothing to fear."  
  
"All the same," Yaxley rushed to add, "this arrived three days after it was sent. Even hasty Muggles can do better on occasion."  
  
"It was the holiday. This is a respectable pace."  
  
"Be that as it may, we must ensure that our transportation links are properly maintained and that there is no chance of sabotage."  
  
"Yes, yes," Bellatrix sniffed, "but next time, your collaborators can send you something that doesn't bite."  
  
On the fourth day of Christmas, Rookwood received some cards.  
  
They were elegant cards, a couple enclosing some pictures of well-dressed children who waved out of the photographs. Nothing too ostentatious--no glitter, no singing envelopes, no money enclosed. There were other ways of showing off.  
  
The cards themselves had even arrived by bird, nothing strange in the world of magic. Except that most mail-delivering birds were owls.  
  
"Mac! Mac! Mac!" called one bird.  
  
"Ldnldnldnldnldn," said the next.  
  
"Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas!" a third squawked.  
  
"Pieces of seventeen..." another mumbled.  
  
" _Evanesco!_ " cast Bellatrix, after one of the birds delivered an extra "present."  
  
"Watch it!" said Rookwood.  
  
"I will when they will. Can't you get owls like civilized people?"  
  
"Civilized? Hardly. Anyone can send an owl, and then you have to sort through all their rubbish for your important correspondence. In the future we'll all have birds that read our mail to us so we don't need to do it ourselves."  
  
"Read your mail?"  
  
"Yes! Listen, that one arrived from Madam Macmillan. And this one is from London."  
  
"Ripping it open would have told you that."  
  
"It's a start," said Rookwood, squinting to make out a word that the birds' talons seemed to have ripped away.  
  
"Polly want a Christmas cracker," said the bird.  
  
On the fifth day of Christmas, Rodolphus presented Bellatrix with golden rings.  
  
"For my true love," he said, sliding one onto her right pinky.  
  
"Thank you, dear."  
  
"My  _one_  true love," he repeated, putting another on her ring finger.  
  
"How generous."  
  
"Anything for you." Another, slightly larger, for her middle finger.  
  
"This long after Christmas?"  
  
"I thought the celebrations might continue." He lifted her hand as he placed one more onto her index finger.  
  
"I didn't get you anything else."  
  
"Your love is a rare gift indeed." A cold piece of metal dropped around her thumb.  
  
She slid it down to her knuckle, then lifted her hand, flexing each finger individually. "You really shouldn't have."  
  
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," muttered Macnair.  
  
On the sixth day of Christmas, Macnair carefully inspected some goose eggs.  
  
"Making breakfast?" Voldemort asked.  
  
"Possibly. I want to see if they're normal eggs, or perhaps magical."  
  
Voldemort took out his wand, and cast a nonverbal spell. At first, nothing happened; then, there was an earsplitting crack and Macnair stood with literal and figurative egg on his face.  
  
"What was that for?" he yelled, rinsing off the mess.  
  
"Being an idiot. Magical goose eggs? Who comes up with this?"  
  
"Gentleman who...may have been imbibing," Macnair conceded. "Told me they were magical geese. Lay golden eggs."  
  
"An unlimited supply of gold?" Snape called.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Don't be so hard on him, guv'nor, it seems like just your kind of gift."  
  
"Be silent," said Voldemort.  
  
"Good try, Wally," Snape shrugged, "but it's just not that easy to profit."  
  
"Hey, what about my breakfast?" Pettigrew interrupted. "I wanted an omelet."  
  
"Go kill one of the geese," suggested Voldemort. "There are half a dozen, they shouldn't be missed."  
  
"I'll miss them!" protested Macnair.  
  
"You know how it goes," said Snape. "Christmas is apparently still ongoing, the goose is getting fat..."  
  
On the last day of the year, Bellatrix presented Voldemort with seven swans. "Happy birthday, my lord," she breathed.  
  
"What do they do?"  
  
"There are seven of them, my lord. The most powerfully magical number."  
  
"Yes, but what do they  _do_?"  
  
"They swim, my lord."  
  
"Swim?"  
  
"In the water."  
  
"As opposed to?"  
  
"Well, water is the element of our House, the great Slytherin. As schoolchildren, we dwelled beneath the lake. These birds that elegantly move through the water symbolize...uh...your utter control of the magic of the greatest Founder!"  
  
"Bellatrix?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What is the  _symbol_  of Slytherin House?"  
  
"A snake, my lord. Because Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth."  
  
"And do I not own a snake?"  
  
"Of course, my lord, for you are the heir of Slytherin and his gift is in your blood."  
  
"What possible use do you think I could have for any  _more_  symbolism?"  
  
"It's a  _gift,_  my lord! To demonstrate my deep affection for your...um...ideals, and my undying fidelity to your...um...cause."  
  
He looked at her, expressionless, and then resumed studying the swans.  
  
"Um. Happy birthday?"  
  
"It is a happy day. Do you know why?"  
  
"Because we have the honor of celebrating you, my lord?"  
  
"You should be doing that every day."  
  
"Of course! I do!"  
  
"Today is a good day because it represents another year I have lived. Another year complete. I will not grow weak and frail, I will grow ever more powerful. I will live out every year!"  
  
On the first day of the new year, Voldemort guided eight cows into a meeting of the Death Eaters, each with an accompanying milker.  
  
"Listen to these simple folk," he demanded. "There is much we can learn from them." He pointed at one of the girls. "What is your name, brat?"  
  
"S-Sarah, sir," she stammered.  
  
"What is your cow's name?"  
  
"Bluebell."  
  
"Bluebell," he repeated mockingly. "You own her?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And what do you have to do, to take care of her?"  
  
"I wake up every day before dawn, to milk her."  
  
"Before dawn?" the Death Eaters muttered to themselves.  
  
Voldemort paused to let the message sink in. Then, he asked the other maidens, "You all do this?"  
  
They nodded.  
  
"Is it easy work?"  
  
"Oh no," said another girl, "sometimes they're sick or it just won't come, so you're sitting there just working and waiting."  
  
"Then you have to feed them," said a third. "Cows eat a  _lot._ "  
  
"And they leave behind cow pies," Sarah noted.  
  
"Even when we do do it well, there are other bigger farms that can drive us out of business."  
  
"It's hard work."  
  
"More than one type of cow," Greyback muttered, and Sarah began whimpering.  
  
"That will be all," said Voldemort. "Severus, you may show our guests out."  
  
After Snape had escorted the maids out the door, Voldemort addressed the others. "That is difficult, messy, and inefficient work. I will not stand for anything of the sort from my followers. Do you understand?"  
  
Heads were nodded.  
  
"Very good. So, even if your plans are foiled by pesky interference, carry on and don't 'have a cow.'"  
  
Snape reentered the room. "Are we keeping these?"  
  
"Briefly," said Voldemort. "I thought tonight we might enjoy some hamburgers."  
  
On the ninth day of Christmas, Rodolphus brought nine dancing ladies to see Lord Voldemort.  
  
"You dance," Voldemort summarized.  
  
Nods.  
  
"Merely dancing?"  
  
"Well..." one trailed off.  
  
"Not spying."  
  
"Correct."  
  
"No covert assassination missions."  
  
"Er..." She nervously turned to Rodolphus. "What's going on here?"  
  
"It's fine!" said Rodolphus. "It's just, my friend here doesn't get out much. I wanted to remind him of all the...impressive ways a human body can rotate, using  _trained professionals._  There's no need for him to settle for...less skillful performances when such talent is so affordable."  
  
"Be at ease," said Voldemort. "I have no, ah, desire to watch such display here  _or_  elsewhere."  
  
"You don't?"  
  
"Not at all."  
  
"Oh. Which means...I suppose...er. Oh dear."  
  
"Which means these ladies' services will not be required."  
  
"Of course. Come along, sorry to waste your time."  
  
"Hey, wait a minute!" called Rabastan. "I'm your favorite brother, don't I get a dance?"  
  
"I already gave you golf clubs for Christmas."  
  
"Okay, we'll go halvsies. Come on, don't pretend you don't want to watch some dancing."  
  
Rodolphus mulled it over for a moment. One brief moment. "Okay, sure."  
  
On the tenth day of Christmas, Lucius Malfoy led ten men into his manor. Not Lords to rival his own Dark Lord, of course, but members of the Wizengamot, the Ministry, or the Hogwarts board of governors. Men of power.  
  
They leapt at his beck and call. Then they sat down.  
  
"You will need, of course," said Voldemort, "to transfer them to my control."  
  
"Of course, my Lord." To the other guests he said confidently "Do whatever he tells you."  
  
"Leap again," said Voldemort, and they leapt. They climbed the walls. They bowed from the ceiling. They turned cartwheels.  
  
"Imperius?" Voldemort asked.  
  
"For now, yes, just to get them used to new surroundings. But some were more pliable than others." Malfoy clapped one on the back. "Pius here seems particularly useful."  
  
"Would you serve me, Pius?" said Voldemort.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Would you like to gain power?"  
  
"If you willed it."  
  
Voldemort smiled. "Malfoy, for the first time all season I've been given a practical gift. Thank you."  
  
On the eleventh day of Christmas, Jugson brought in some pipers to sing Voldemort's praises.  
  
Well, he tried to.  
  
"Hey!" said Rabastan, tossing a Sickle at one of them, "do some Celestina Warbeck! I love her."  
  
They looked at each other, thought it over, and launched into an instrumental rendition of "A Cauldron Full Of Hot, Strong Love."  
  
"Weird Sisters!" called Alecto Carrow. "Have to stay hip."  
  
"I don't know that one," said the lead piper.  
  
"Come on," groaned the youngest of the eleven musicians. "Here, tell you what, let's spread out and for another Sickle I'll play a solo."  
  
Alecto readily acceded, and soon enough the forces of the free market had taken their toll. Instead of harmonizing together, the pipers were playing Bjorn and the Short-Snouts for Amycus Carrow, Brazo de la Bruja for Greyback, and the Warlock's Waltz for Rodolphus. (Another drew the line at performing Musidora Barkwith's oeuvre for Bellatrix.)  
  
"Do we have to listen to this?" Pettigrew grumbled as Macnair applauded a Hobgoblins medley.  
  
"You know how it goes!" said the jovial Macnair. "He who pays the piper calls the tune!"  
  
"I'm as confused as you are," sighed Snape. "I thought this many magical pipers would drive  _out_  the rats."  
  
On the twelfth day of Christmas, the drummers came.  
  
An even dozen, from morning until night. There was nothing Snape could do except magically charm his ears to make sure they didn't cause any hearing loss. He couldn't send them away. They were a gift, one explained. An early birthday present from a man who believed music was a supremely powerful magic. It wouldn't be polite.  
  
There was no chance of Snape coming along to a Death Eaters' meeting, not with the inescapable  _ratatataRAtatata_  in his wake. But Voldemort dropped in on him with general news--not sharing anything too specific, the drummers might overhear. He was extremely tempted to kill the lot, and if a weaker wizard than Dumbledore had hired them probably would have. Still, no sense in inflaming old grudges before their time.  
  
 _RatatataRAtatata..._  
  
"You're sure this is for your birthday?"  
  
"Early, yes. They implied there are singing dwarves in store the next few days."  
  
"The curses of tolerating spies."  
  
"Says the one who can leave any time!"  
  
Voldemort sighed. "At least the Christmas presents are done with."  
  
"Nothing for Epiphany?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Tomorrow's Epiphany. The day of the first gifts, the presents that the Magi brought to see the newborn king."  
  
"Well, there will be no more merrymaking among my followers. I'm sick of it."  
  
"They had read in the stars where and when he would be born. And the jealous King Herod demanded to know this from them, so that he could kill the child."  
  
"Yes, all right--"  
  
"But having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they went home by another way."  
  
The drums beat on.


End file.
